THE QUEST FOR EDWARD'S MAGICAL HAIR CONDITIONER
by Crowmunculus
Summary: "My hair is not greasy! It is properly moisturized and beautiful!" Roy learns that there is more to life than L'Oreal, and embarks on a quest to steal Ed's conditioner. This does not end well.
1. Part One

**A/N: Full title = THE QUEST FOR EDWARD'S MAGICAL CURE-ALL HAIR CONDITIONER.**

**Written for a friend during a gift exchange. Loser!Roy is simply too much fun to write. Don't take it seriously, because I never do. **

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Roy was emo. While this was not an uncommon occurrence, he was feeling worse off than usual.

The date had been going just swell. Liddy giggled at all the right jokes, gasped at all the right gossip, and was _this _close to surrendering to Roy's incredible good looks and charm and allowing him access to the files she was in charge of, when Roy removed his rather fetching black hat and she suddenly went into acute respiratory failure and had to rush off to the ladies room.

She never came back.

Yes, Roy had plenty of reason to mope about this. Hours later, after hours spent waiting in vain, he called her up and asked, with his best kicked puppy voice, what he had done wrong.

She sighed. "I'm sorry, Ro – Colonel Mustang. You're very sweet, but it just couldn't work out."

"Was it something I said?" he asked, on the verge of desperation. Roy Mustang was _not _stood up on a date. That sort of thing did not happen in his world; he wasn't Havoc. This was more than just a great blow to his pride - this could destroy his entire world view!

"No, you were – you were very sweet." Her voice wavered nervously. She was probably twirling the phone cord around her finger, or fiddling with a lock of her hair. "It wasn't that."

"Was it my breath?" he asked, now in a state of full-on desperation. If it wasn't that, if it wasn't his manners or hygiene, then it would have to be his devastatingly handsome face, and if she found fault in that, he just couldn't bear it –

"It was your hair, R - Colonel Mustang," she said hurriedly, stumbling over his title once again. "It's very greasy. I'm sorry." She hung up.

Roy gently placed his phone on its cradle and stared at it, dumbstruck.

"My hair is not greasy!" he shouted, several minutes after the fact. "It is properly moisturized and beautiful!"

The phone said nothing. Roy was almost disappointed. "I just use L'Oreal," he continued, voice cracking, "BECAUSE I'M WORTH IT!"

Dammit, this was depressing. Had he been born a hundred years later, he would have whined about this on his LiveJournal. As it was, he considered angsting to his diary. It was a nice diary, leather-bound and with one of those cute heart-shaped locks that had a matching stylish key.

He needed someone to talk to. Still scowling, he punched in First Lieutenant Hawkeye's number and waited for her to pick up.

After a series of agonizing rings, she answered. "First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye speaking."

"…do you always state your rank when you answer a call?"

Glares could not yet be transmitted through the phone, but Roy swore she managed to achieve it somehow. "I would assume that any call made at _three in the morning_ would be an emergency. What is your…_emergency_, Colonel?"

"Master Sergeant Lydia thinks that my hair is greasy."

A click, and she was gone. This rejection, so soon after the last one, was a stinging blow, and his Confidenceometer dropped several more notches. He called her back immediately.

"What is it now, Colonel?"

"I bet you would have felt stupid if it wasn't me."

"_What is it, Colonel?_" This time it was not a glare so much as a closed fist, the image branded onto his eyelids as clearly as if it were centimeters from his face instead of miles away across a sprawling city. Simply amazing, how did she _do_ that?

"…Is my hair greasy?" he asked tentatively. "Please don't hang up again, I need to know."

"Will you let me sleep if I tell you, sir?"

Sleep? Sleep was for the weak. "Yes, of course," he said instead, because his initial response was not likely to garner sympathy.

"Yes." She said bluntly, and his heart dropped to his tailor-made shoes. They were suede. "Your current conditioner is not right for your hair type. I would recommend switching brands."

"But…L'Oreal..."

"There is more to life than L'Oreal, sir."

"I know, but is there more to hair conditioners?" Roy did not admit that he didn't know of any others. Hawkeye picked up on it anyway.

"Yes. There's Herbal Essences, and Suave, and Dove, and many others. I myself use Pantene, which could be a good match for you."

"…can I have some of yours?"

"No."

He winced.

She clarified: "It's expensive, and the type that I buy is for blonde hair."

"Ah. I don't want that. Do they have a conditioner specifically for black hair?"

"I would imagine you wouldn't, sir. And yes, they used to, but the product was discontinued."

Roy didn't ask how she knew this much about hair products. That was Hawkeye for you, always full of surprises. And she had to keep her hair looking fabulous _somehow_.

Roy had depended on L'Oreal, but L'Oreal had lied to him. Roy would _never forgive…_it. It. Them. Whatever.

"So…what do you recommend?"

"For your own safety, I would recommend letting me sleep, sir." Again with the closed fist, and this time it was closed around the handle of something long and pointy that Roy did not know the name of and most likely did not _want_ to know the name of.

"Duly noted, Lieutenant. Sleep well."

"Sleep well, Colonel." He nearly set down the phone, but then she added quickly before hanging up, "You should try talking to Edward. With hair like his, he would be the best to consult."

Roy set the phone down, once again dumbstruck. Talk to Fullmetal? About personal hygiene? One may as well discuss with a warthog the best methods of concealing offensive bodily odors. But, on some level, he had to admit that she was right: Fullmetal's hair was, indeed, fabulous. Just like hers. Maybe he also used Pantene?

At any rate, he would not talk to Fullmetal directly about this. The little brat would never let him live it down, if he knew. There had to be a _better way _of discovering the secret he was so surely hiding.

In his mind, a devious plan began to devise, all by itself. Yes, he would find Fullmetal's magical conditioner and steal it for himself, all without the boy ever knowing! It was entirely possible and entirely not nonsensical, and not at all the ass-o-clock-in-the-morning haze talking!

Roy fell asleep on the paperwork he had spent the day working hard to avoid. He woke up with ink stains on his face. His Confidenceometer not allowing him to check the mirror out of misguided self-preservation, he never noticed. No one bothered to tell him.

END PART ONE


	2. Part Two

**A/N: So this is a _very_ rushed first draft of the second chapter, and as such, it kind of sucks, especially the last part. The final version is fighting me every step of the way and might take a while, so I'm just posting this version now and I'll get the revised version up as soon as I can.**

**Feedback is love!  
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Roy crept up onto the top of the hotel, like ninja. He was even dressed like a ninja. Because he was that dedicated. Also, in the nigh-impossible event that he was seen, this getup would ensure his anonymity.

And he looked _damn _fine in black.

He unrolled the hotel floor plan he had acquired from who-knows-where and judged his location. He was at the northeast corner, and Fullmetal's room was approximately fifteen meters to the west. He counted his steps to judge the distance: one, two, three…

An indeterminable number of steps later, because the author is unsure of Roy's step length and therefore does not know how many of his steps would fill fifteen meters, he was directly above the suite. He tied one end of his safety rope securely around his waist, and the other end around a conveniently placed gargoyle, and slowly lowered himself down to the windowsill.

The window was unlocked. He opened it, carefully, and stepped inside on his manly tipptyoes, quiet as to not make a sound. The room was dark as the night outside, but without the benefit of the moon's light, and as such, Roy couldn't see a goddamn _thing_.

Flame alchemy! He could use flame alchemy to light the way – and set the hotel on fire. The idea was dismissed even before he remembered that he had forgotten his gloves. Damn.

This had not been part of the game plan. He was a bad ninja.

Roy was, once again, emo, brooding over what he should do next...what the hell. He'd come this far, it was too late to back down now. He could _kind_ of see, now that his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light. He was the goddamn Flame Alchemist. What was the worst that could happen?

Roy took one step forward, hit the sofa, and tripped.

The second girly scream was most certainly not his. The same could not be said of the first, but Roy refused to dwell on that fact, and instead wondered when Fullmetal's voice had regressed to such a high pitch.

"WHY ARE YOU IN MY ROOM!?" the other voice screamed, and now Roy was _certain_ that it did not belong to Fullmetal, unless Fullmetal's balls had shrunk overnight. "PERVERT!"

Okay, wrong room. Not willing to risk his identity, he waved his arms frantically, as if to signal "Wait, wait, this isn't what it looks like!" His message, however, was not taken as such, and looked more like he was testing out a strange new form of interpretive dance meant to further enrage PO'd young women, which is exactly what it accomplished.

"GET OUT!" the voice screamed, and – THWAK. Something metal and painful – a wrench, some fear-addled part of his mind somehow realized - beaned Roy right between the eyes and knocked him over backward, and how the hell did that girl know where to aim it, did she have night vision or something?

Then the door swung open, crashing against the wall, and "Winry, are you okay? What is it?" Ah, now THAT voice belonged to Fullmetal. Just as shrieky, but lower-pitched.

"CREEPING WINDOW PERVERT!" she screamed, and Roy _bolted _for said window, ducked down low as other wrenches flew past his head, abandoned all propriety and defenestrated himself before he could be met by the wrath of Fullmetal's titular steel fist.

The safety rope snapped tight against his middle and left him dangling helpless in midair a few meters below the window. Fuck.

"LING IF THAT'S YOU I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING-"

"DON'T YOU DARE INSULT THE PRINCE!" and Roy dropped _another _few meters as what he had thought was a gargoyle dropped onto the window and_ holy shit a real live ninja!_

"HE WAS SPYING ON WINRY-"

"HE WAS NOT-"

As the screaming match ensued above him, Roy mourned for his eardrums and, in a panic, began gnawing at his "safety" rope unthinkingly. When that didn't work, he remembered that he had thumbs, and untied the knot, and then he remembered why that wasn't a good idea.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" he said. Fortunately, even a failure of a ninja such as himself was ninja enough to grab onto the edge of another windowsill as he dropped past, and he swung himself up onto the ledge, opened the window, and barged inside.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" said the room's occupant. Roy didn't even bother with formalities this time and made a beeline for the door, which he opened and then sprang through like a speedy gazelle. Or something like that. He reached the stairwell and hopped onto the railing, slid down, hit the floor, turned, took the next railing, all the way to the ground floor, while the hotel's alarm blared insistently in the background.

He found a supply closet, broke inside, and sealed the lock with alchemy.

He did not know what to do next. He hadn't planned that far ahead.

Damn.

END PART TWO


End file.
